


Rogue and Watching

by Sketchypheebs



Category: Walking Dead, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Apocalypse, Badass, Blood, Chaptered, Character Study, Drama, Gen, Gore, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, I Don't Even Know, Internal Conflict, Loss, Loss of Control, Memory Loss, Memory Related, Mild Gore, My First Work in This Fandom, POV First Person, Pain, Past, Plot, Present Tense, Psychological Horror, Reincarnation, Sad, Secrets, Wordcount: Over 1.000, Work In Progress, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1541540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sketchypheebs/pseuds/Sketchypheebs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When one is truly lost, they can never be found again. Is this invariably true? Beings called Walkers have one objective: to eat. But what happens behind the bloody eyes? What the survivors don't know is that the life of a Walker is a movie to them. They can see through their eyes, but nothing else is within their control. What would happen if one regained it, if just for a second?<br/>This is the story of one special Walker. Now banished from humanity, she wanders, alone. Perhaps hopelessness sets in before its due.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The world around me is so quiet. My feet are nearly bare, with a couple of scraps of fabric left from my socks. They wore away faster than I had expected, I guess I shouldn't have crossed that stretch of gravel. I seem to do the dumbest things, and now I'm only disturbing what could be perfect silence. I think it's a warm day, I can see bright glints where the river mirrors the sun. There is a light and dry breeze that makes the overgrown grass and weeds rustle and sway. Something about it is hypnotic, even beautiful. I wish I could watch longer, but it doesn't seem like my eyes are inclined to stay there.

I'm coming to the lake, I suppose it's because there is a doe and her offspring drinking at the edge. They would have died soon anyway, right? No, please.

I wish with everything I have that I could control myself, if even for a moment! What could be any more innocent than a mother and her child, nothing more a pair of simple animals? These days, not one person nor animal deserves their fate, whether it manifests itself as ignorant happiness or painful death. Unfortunately, I have been the harbinger of the latter far too many times.

I'm approaching the fresh meat now. I can't believe that with all of my incessant groaning and snarling the two have not noticed me yet! Will they run away? The air suddenly feels dry and my warped, blood stained vision becomes momentarily clear. I notice that my body has taken on the challenge of breaking into a quick shamble, almost qualifying as a run. The head of the mother snaps around to see me approaching, and her muscles visibly tense. Widened eyes further expose her black sclera. In an instant, she is gone. No matter to me though. Her baby is not so swift. I am upon it in a moment. So that's the sound that deer make. You learn something new every day.

The baby is still crying out for its mother until I sink my rotting teeth into the flesh of its throat. It writhed in silence now.

'I am so, so sorry.'

The taste of bloodied raw meat is detestable. Why is it that I take every opportunity to gorge myself with it, until my stomach is distended and walking is near impossible? I don't pay attention while I feast. I can allow my hands and teeth to do it for me, but on the inside I am squeezing my eyes shut, blocking it out as best I can.

'It was only a baby.'

Soon, there is nothing left but flecks of cartilage and dried up nerves on the bones of the baby, so I rise up and move on. How it is physically possible to have fit that much meat into my now stretched and straining stomach is beyond me. I wonder where I'm going now. I think I can see a building up ahead. It's surrounded by fence with endless curls of barbed wire on top. My sense of hearing tends to come and go, what with the often-erratic beating of my heart, but I can still make out voices in the distance. I guess the frantic overtone was warranted by the fact that I am nearing a rather large hole in this facility's defenses. After all, something had knocked this fence clear out of the ground.

"Dad, a walker's getting in!" Someone shouts. It's a boy, I can tell by the remnants of a high-pitched youth in the voice. There isn't an answer to the cry. The kid's father must be occupied. There are gunshots sounding, but they are so far away. The hoard I saw yesterday must have found their way into the area as well.

I turn slightly to my left, and now I can see the boy. He looks about fourteen, and wears a silly looking sheriff's hat over long brown hair. He would have looked cute, if he were not currently pointing a pistol in the direction of my head. Rather than cute, he looked godly. 'Is this my savior?'

My elation suddenly turns to disappointment. He pulls the trigger to end my second life, but the gun just clicks. Guess he hadn't thought to check his ammo before coming out here. 'What an idiot.'

Though I can hold out a little more hope when he pulls a knife from his belt. Just one hit between the eyes and I could stop being such a nuisance to them.

He's running for me now. Yes, I am about to die for the final time now, which is a blessing in my cursed existence, but I'm upset that I was never able to gain control of myself. What the hell is so damn hard about stopping your fingernails from scratching or your jaw from biting down? I suppose now is as good a time as any, and I try with all my might. Just once, maybe I can stop. I cringe on the inside. I have never concentrated on something so futile in my life, but after a moment, I'm shocked beyond imagination. I'm not moving anymore. My feet are bound to the ground and my hands are rising to touch my own face, instead of ripping at another's. I hope he can understand my apology this way. I hope that with stillness and a hanging head and covered face that I can convey a tiny fraction of my guilt.

Here it comes. You're almost there.

All I have left for me was disappointment when I peek between my fingers at the boy. His knife is still pointed and ready, but his face seems to tell a different story.

What are you waiting for? Do it!

Right then, I can faintly hear shouts. They are telling the boy to kill me, but he still doesn't advance. He won't stop staring, so I guess I will have to wait now. Damn this all to hell.


	2. The Odd Walker

In that moment, Carl could not find it within himself to listen to the shouts from his approaching father. Every word Carl heard is meant to egg him on, to make him kill the walker standing in front of him. Carl himself was perplexed, as his deep-seated hatred for all walkers should have been forever rampant in his heart, but the odd behavior of this one seemed to be enough to extinguish it!

The walker was far too different to simply kill off right away. Carl knew that Rick would see that right away. Moments later, his expectations were fulfilled. His father's hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Carl, what the hell are you waiting for?" The enraged man asked. He then looked up to the walker that his son was staring at so intently, and he squinted his eyes in confusion almost immediately.

"Dad, I can't just shoot it! Look at it, and tell me that's just another walker."

Rick held up his hand to stop his son from continuing, and drew his own gun. He thought of a woman from an eternity ago, who looked as dead as one could be, and yet was alive and speaking. She was walking alone, through an infested forest, with pale skin, a hollow face, and matted hair. There seemed to be a resemblance. Rick pointed his gun sharply and turned his head to look Carl in the eye.

"Get Michonne and Glenn, right now. There's a stash of rope and straight jackets in the chest under the stairs, bring them." Rick took a sharp breath when he did not receive an immediate answer. His son was stammering uncharacteristically, and Rick did not have that kind of time. How long was a walker just going to stand there? "Carl, go now!" Rick's voice came out hoarse and panicked, and was strong enough to send Carl sprinting for the hole in the fence.

Carl wanted to shout and scream for Michonne, as though she would hear and come running, supplies in hand. Despite Michonne's acute and diverse abilities, she could not read minds.

Carl was running faster than he had in a very long time. Every now and then, he would trip on a rock hiding in the grass, or would be forced to evade an excited walker within range. He made it to the hole in the fence, panting and with sweat dripping from his face and neck. It was a horrible feeling for Carl to be so overheated, thirsty, and anxious, but he could release a genuine sigh of relief when he saw Michonne wandering, no more than fifty feet away.

"Get Glenn! We need help!" Carl knew he shouted a bit louder than necessary, but at least it served to capture the swordswoman's attention. Carl approached fast. He could see that Michonne was surprised by the sudden plea from Carl. The two had never quite seen a reason to speak, for Michonne could be incredibly despondent, and most likely viewed Carl as little more than an annoying little idiot. That position would have to be debated at a later time, though.

"What happened?" She asked. She stood in a defensive stance, with her arm twitching for her sword.

Carl suppressed a coughing fit before the answering. "No time. Bring a straight jacket and a rope. Go fast."

Michonne did not need to be told twice. She relaxed her sword arm and made a dash for the prison interior.

Carl was on his way back to his father, when Michonne and Glenn caught up. Was such a fast reaction even possible?

"Come on, they're over here!" Carl pointed to his father and another figure that stood perfectly still, even as the three approached rather noisily.

In no time at all, the walker had been pushed to the ground, and pushed into her straight jacket with a surprisingly small display of resistance. Even before they tied the thick rope about her throat and jaw, she did not make an attempt to bite.

"What the hell are we doing?" Michonne hissed angrily. "You're trying to tell me that we are wasting our time on this?" She obviously wasn't quite open to the obvious situation here.

"Shut up," Carl replied. "You know as well as I do that this walker's fucked up somehow." He ignored he dangerous flash in his father's eyes at the rough language. "If it's not trying to hurt us, she's defying everything we know about walkers. We need to watch her! You don't see one like this every day, and I for one find the lack of biting fucking intriguing."

Michonne's face twitched a bit. 'So that's why I don't talk to this kid,' she remembered. 'What a little asshole.'

They dragged the walker back to the prison in tense silence. The walker was making strange sounds as she stumbled to keep up with the tug of the rope. First, there were the closed-mouthed moans that sounded like a whining child. Carl winced occasionally at the sounds. He had never heard a walker sound so sad before. But the nearer the got to the prison, the whining turned to intermittent grunts. The grunts soon turned into screaming growls, as loud as one would think a walker could produce with its mouth bound shut so tightly. Soon, the odd walker began to have tiny fits, in which it would thrash about, trying to free its arms from the jacket, and to rip apart the rope around its head. As quickly as these fits came on, they ceased, and the odd walker returned to her whining moans, walking obediently behind her captors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello there, dear reader! First author's note for this story. :) I hope you're enjoying, and I would like to sincerely thank you for reading. Have fun with your stuff and thangs this week, I hope we meet again~


	3. Mini

Two months have passed since they led me into this prison. I can safely say that these have been the two longest months of my entire afterlife. I always feel a pair of eyes on me, but I can't always tell where they are. At night, my cell block is deathly silent. I only hear the groans of one of my kind every once in a while. Since I'm quite accustomed to hoarde travel, I can't tell for certain whether the silence is wrapping around me like a soft blanket of comfort, or if I am being submerged in an icy void. Feelings are particularly difficult at times, and when you have no control over the creases and stretch of the skin on your face, you could almost forget the difference between what it feels like to laugh, as opposed to what it feels like to cry. For all I know, I could be doing both. My body is empty, and not only due to the lack of healthy flesh.

The slam that rings out today, like every other day, rings out painfully loud, but no louder than usual. Carl appears from around the corner with a ring of keys jingling at his side. Stupid kid. I'm sure I've heard Rick tell him at least fifteen times not to get near me. Yes, I count. What more can I do?

Carl has a large bag slung over his shoulder, and he walks toward my cell. I wonder how he isn't gagging at this stench I've created. A room full of the breath of a rotting mouth can't be pleasent. All I feel that I can do is charge at the metal bars, and that is what I do. Pointless.

Carl takes a strange mass from the bag he's been carrying. It looks filthy, but I can still tell by the few hairs that remained free from the mat covering it, that it was once living. Perhaps it was a cat?

He throws it into my cell, through the bars. Thank god he didn't unlock that door. I would have been on him in a second, and it would instantly be so that my daily meal would be far larger than a scrawny dead cat.


	4. Hear Me, Please!

I've been practicing my voluntary movements every day for a week now. It's taken horrible exertions of effort and energy, both mental and physical, but I've finally managed to stop the clawing and groaning. I'm not sure, but I think this has caught Rick's attention. I just have to keep it up. Yesterday, Carl came to feed me a rabbit, and I was so thankful. The rabbit was freshly killed, cleanly and quickly; not eaten alive. It had gone through no pain. The taste of its flesh was unusually fresh and clean, and I felt satisfied for a good ten minutes following my meal. Now, the greatest pain I'm suffering is my inability to thank Carl. He's been so good to me.

If I've overheard correctly, today is Glenn and Daryl's day to go for a run into town. This morning, Daryl was pacing around my cell. I presumed he was waiting for the boss to arrive- at least, I think Rick is the boss. It's almost like a dictator in my eyes. Whatever he says becomes a reality, lest the enemy be looking for a fight, and I know that Daryl is not happy with this. He's free- living on his own terms. He wasn't meant to be living in captivity being bossed around by some dead-beat police officer.

I've seen Rick Grimes for what he has truly become. Everyone has dealt with the end of the world in their own way, but some have obviously dealt better than others. Rick thinks the storm has passed in his mind, or, that's what I gather, for his conversations with the staircase seem to be completely coherent in his mind. His wife is standing before him; he calls her Lori. The few words he utters to his hallucination make me uneasy, though I can't exactly tell why. Maybe it's the irrational joy shining in his eyes, or his stance that exudes relaxation and contentment. These feelings should not exist in times like these. They're what will ultimately get you killed; believe me, I would know.

I can sense Rick nearby. He's muttering to himself as usual, but I don't think Daryl can hear him yet. The man is just pacing. Though it makes me feel like an apathetic monster, I can't help but enjoy the story that plays on Daryl's face; I can read him like an open book, like Holmes in one of those old Sherlock BBC episodes I was so much in love with. His eyes are dead; he never smiles, not even for a moment. He's experienced loss, so much heartbreak and betrayal. All the terrible suffering has lead to a hardening of the soul, a general wall of apathy built up to protect from the blows this world deals out every day. Perhaps he's witnessed the death of a loved one? Maybe a daughter or son, or brother or sister. Maybe he's watched his parents bleed to death at the hands of a monster- no, I think it was a brother. Now I can only wonder; was the monster one of my people? Or was it one of his fellow humans? In my opinion, there's less of a difference between us than most humans would probably like to think. I've seen men slaughter each other as brutally, as angrily as they would slaughter someone like me. There are so many of me to choose from. The fact that men these days choose to kill the living out of anger instead of the truly guilty: the dead, is completely baffling.

But I can't stay on the inside too long. Rick is here now- Listen. Focus.

Daryl's swinging his crossbow beside his knee; funny how it looks like he's always itching to find a target. He looks up darkly to meet Rick's eyes.

"You ready? Was waitin' for twenty damn minutes y'know. Now come on, Judith needs a hell of a lot more formula."

I would scoff if I could. Does Rick really need someone to tell him what his own daughter needs? That's some A+ parenting right there.

"I know what she needs," Rick retaliates. "I was taking care of something with Beth."

Beth. Daryl's weak spot, obviously.

"What did you want with her?" Daryl's voice takes on a slightly more hostile tone. I would feel protective too, if I were in his shoes. Rick barely ever talks to anyone anymore. If I were Daryl, I would think Beth is too far above Rick to be bothered by him.

"None of your business." Oh god, don't start this now, Rick.

"Says you, asshole. What did you want with her?" Yes, he's definitely angry now. Rick sighs, defeated. He doesn't look like he's up for a fight right now.

"Alright, alright, just forget it. We gotta go; we can talk later."

"You got the chain?"

Rick nods, holding up the metal length. It has a thick ring equipped with a hinge.

I see where this is going. To put it lightly, I am not happy about this. Sure, it's pretty smart to cover your scent with walkers nearby, but last time I saw someone use this method, the fate of the Walker was not pretty. I would really like to keep my hands and lower jaw and teeth; I had a tooth pulled once, and once was enough. I think I might die if they chop my hands off and destroy my face. I may not need them, but I'm so tired of all this pain.

I recede back to my corner of the cell as the lock is undone and the cell door slides away. I guess if there's one thing to be happy about, it's that I can keep myself from pouncing on them first chance I get.

Don't. Move.

I think I've managed to squeeze my eyes shut. When my vision returns, I can feel the intense constriction and chaffing of the metal ring around my throat. My hands are tied behind my back, tighter than I even thought possible. And, thank god, they have chosen to bind my jaw with rope and steel, instead of severing it all together. Soon enough, they're dragging me to my feet. As usual, I have nothing better to do than to listen, that is, after my initial fit of animalistic rage. They've ignored the thrashing flailing pretty well. Both men are staring ahead as they walk.

"Who in the hell ever decided this was a good idea," Daryl finally questioned. "She's only slowing us down, we shoulda' killed her ages ago."Rick doesn't respond. I can tell that Daryl is royally pissed off, but he gives up trying. These two never get anywhere. I'm glad they've decided to shut up. They had better stay quiet if they want to keep their heads attached; I can smell neighbors approaching. I think Daryl can sense it too, because he stops short, his grip tightening on my leash.

"Did you hear that?"

"Yup."

I want to scream at them to stop talking, and run. They're coming. Too many; stay here and the boys will be dead meat and I'll be alone again. No way.

I start another fit, this time of my own accord. I pull against the metal with all my might, trying to pull Daryl in the other direction. They have to run, I don't care if they drag me along the ground like a dead dog. I will not be alone again.

"Bitch, calm down!" Daryl's only getting angrier. I think it must be clouding his senses, because out of the corner of my eye, I see the enemy.

It's time for the freak-festival.

It's fortunate that I'm feeling particularly in control right now. I yank my chain as hard as I can, in the direction of the oncoming enemy. I look back to Daryl, and again to the walker now emerging from the shadows.

Daryl glances up briefly, but it's all we need. I watch as his instincts kick in, and he's running in the other direction, dragging me happily along behind. Rick follows in suit.

Rick runs past me to mutter something to Daryl. Now, they are looking back at me as we run, with the most bewildered expression I've seen. I do my best to blink, to breathe naturally, to utter a single syllable. I think I've got them.


End file.
